Short Order
by kabensi
Summary: Quinn's been meeting up for some late night action with a waitress at her favorite late night diner.


She's not sure how long she's been coming here, exactly. It's not the only diner she visits during the late nights, but it's her favorite. Though, that may be due to the service rather than the food. Not that it's bad. It's actually fairly standard. But then pancakes and eggs probably take extra effort to actually come out wrong.

But the service is stellar.

"Freshen up that coffee for you?"

"Yes, please." Her "regular" waitress is on duty, wearing the same baby blue short sleeve button up, black skirt, and black apron she's always worn on the clock.

She's been coming here since the middle of her freshman year at Columbia, when her roommate started bringing home one night stands and she had studying to do. Or when she just didn't want to listen to the grunts and groans of frat boys going to town on Gina. Her sophomore roommate was more virtuous, but by then she had a bit of a routine already set. Now, she's sharing an off campus apartment with someone who doesn't even go to her school, but she still finds time to come here, because it has its perks.

She hasn't placed her food order, yet. It's supposed to be a reward for getting through the next page of her "ten to fifteen required pages" response paper.

"You've been working on that for almost an hour."

Has is already been that long? "Shit, sorry. I can order now."

"No, it's fine. I just... noticed." The place is never very busy at this hour on a Tuesday, which means they've been chatting a little, which is likely why she hasn't hit her quota, yet.

"Okay. Just tell me when."

"I'm about to go on break. So, maybe when I get back?"

Her eyes are on the keys as as she thinks, but then they wander to the sock clad legs standing next to the table. She knows what's about to happen, because this is what they do.

There's a reason why the faucet in the ladies' room always leaks. It can only take so many collisions with Rachel's back before something is knocked loose.

Quinn has her pinned up on the edge of the counter, her hand wedged between them while Rachel's legs are wrapped around her waist. She knows this woman can't just be walking around the diner, going commando all the time, so there must be some point where she slips out of her panties, but Quinn can never quite pinpoint when.

"I only have fifteen minutes." It's a breathless reminder between kisses.

"I know, I know." But she knows this is the cue to get down to business, so she immediately pushes two ready fingers through slick heat and tries to muffle as much of the resulting moan as possible.

Rachel's eager hands are everywhere under her Columbia hoodie, but as Quinn repeats the motion of her wrist, the wandering is adjusted to gripping her shoulders outside the sweatshirt. "Harder."

"Shhh." They've managed to keep this up for a while now, but she's always waiting for the inevitable moment when they're caught and the diner's out a member of the waitstaff. But she complies and, in return, there's a face buried between her neck and shoulder. This puts Rachel's ear conveniently close to her mouth, which creates a temptation she can't resist. "Unless you want someone to walk in on us," she considers, voice gravelly and deeper than usual. "And catch you getting fucked by some customer who just happens to know how hard and fast you like it."

"Quinn." The whine in Rachel's voice suggests she's trying so hard to stay quiet. A rarity in any other aspect of her life, really. "Almost..."

Her palm makes rough contact with a target area every time she completes an inward stroke. And every time, Rachel releases a small whimper, until the last time, when it's longer, more drawn out, and Quinn has to brace herself, because Rachel's legs are really strong and when they lock around her, they lock hard.

Neither of them move for a moment, save for breathing and the occasional shudder. This is how they make it work. With Rachel going to Juilliard and Quinn studying pre-law at Columbia, blocks of time spent together are rare. This morning, Rachel caught Quinn in the shower and proceeded to go down on her long enough to almost make her miss the train (fortunately, she's a fast runner). Last week was the first time in ages they actually spent a considerable amount time in bed together without being sound asleep.

"That only took eight minutes. You want to go, again?"

"I need to be able to walk to do my job, babe." Somehow Rachel's panties are in the pocket of Quinn's hoodie, which becomes apparent when she retrieves them and nudges Quinn back so she can slip them back on.

"How...? Never mind, I'd rather believe in the magic."

Rachel laughs and slips off the counter. "How's the paper coming?"

"Not as quickly as you."

"Unfortunate."

"Truly."

"I'll put your order in." Rachel grabs the front of the sweatshirt and kisses Quinn before slipping out the restroom door.

Quinn washes her hands and checks her hair, waiting the standard two minutes before exiting the space. She's positive it's obvious what they're doing, what they've been doing for a couple years, now. But no one seems to care. Maybe that's the benefit of living in New York, everyone's wrapped up in their own sordid life details to care about anyone else's.

When she returns to the table, there's a fresh cup of coffee and a small plate of bacon strips.

Love manifests in weird ways. Sometimes it's a quick fuck in a questionable location. Other times it's breakfast staples in the middle of the night.

Any which way, she'll take it.


End file.
